


Messrs. Moony, Simon, Padfoot & Baz (or: Alumni)

by fox_diaz



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell, Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M, that is the question, wolfstar or snowbaz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-07
Updated: 2020-06-07
Packaged: 2021-03-04 02:28:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,419
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24586108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fox_diaz/pseuds/fox_diaz
Summary: The thing is, if you squint - if you let your eyes blur over a bit, like I’m doing right now - this is me and Baz.They look about sixty, and some of the details are wrong, but it could be us. Except we’re old. And holding hands. And happy.(An ode to the "snowbaz or wolfstar????" tags on tumblr)
Relationships: Sirius Black/Remus Lupin, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 34
Kudos: 189





	Messrs. Moony, Simon, Padfoot & Baz (or: Alumni)

Christmas shopping should be illegal. 

It’s rammed in central London, and I keep bumping into people and ricocheting off things, mumbling general apologies (can’t waste time on personalised ones with so many people to say sorry to) and then rushing off as fast as I can from the scene of the crime. 

Agatha’s easy - I just get whatever the meanest-looking shop assistant tells me a girl would like - but Penny’s much more difficult, and I end up wandering the basement floor of a busy department store for ages until someone asks me if I need help and I blurt out “Books?”. 

He points towards the lifts and says “fourth floor”, looking at me with pity I’m not sure I’ve earned. 

I’m not paying attention to where I’m going when I step into the lift. I barely register that there are other people in it until it’s too late, and then I look up and freeze on the spot like a startled numpty.

There are two blokes in here, but they stop talking as soon as I get in. One of them’s a bit taller, sort of mousy in amongst the grey, generally unremarkable except for the fact that he’s got these wicked scars on his face; one curving around his jaw, one slashing through his eyebrow, another cutting across the bridge of his nose. 

The other one has much sharper features, all cheekbone and jawline, and this hollowed-out, half-starved look like how I used to get after a summer away from Watford. He’s got long, dark grey hair streaked through with white, and tattoos poking out of his sleeves; he’d be fucking _terrifying_ if it weren’t for the fact that his face is creased with so many laughter lines that I can see them even now as he frowns at me. 

He’s probably wondering why I’m staring.

The thing is, if you squint - if you let your eyes blur over a bit, like I’m doing right now - this is me and Baz. 

They look about sixty, and some of the details are wrong, but it could be us. Except we’re old. And holding hands. And _happy_. 

“Can we help you?” the darker-haired bloke says archly, cocking an eyebrow, and he looks so much like Baz for a second that my heart feels like it’s going to punch through my ribs. 

“Er,” I say, but suddenly it’s like the walls of the lift are closing in; it’s too fucking hot in here, and there’s not enough air, and it’s like my clothes are _strangling_ me. 

I know this. This is a panic attack. I’m having a fucking panic attack while the ghosts of Christmas future glare at me, probably because they think I’m a homophobe instead of just an idiot. 

“Um,” I try again - but then it’s like I can’t see anything at all, my vision narrowing to this tiny slither of light, and I have to sit down hard on the floor of the lift and try to focus on my breathing. 

“Shit,” I hear the taller bloke say. 

“Whoops,” says the other one. “I think I broke him, Moony.” 

*

I really don’t know how I got here, but apparently they managed to steer me into a cafe on the fourth floor that I didn’t know existed - it’s hidden amongst the bookshelves of the travel section - and the taller one who seems to be called ‘Moony’ has gone to get me something to drink while the dark-haired one just stares at me thoughtfully. 

“Have you ever punched anyone?” he says suddenly, and it’s such a weird question that it breaks through the fog in my brain and I squint at him. 

“Er,” I say. “Yeah.” 

“Thought so,” he says, nodding sagely. “You’ve got those punching hands.” 

Thankfully his boyfriend - husband? - is back, pushing a mug of hot chocolate topped with ridiculous amounts of whipped cream and marshmallows across the table at me. 

“Drink,” he says. “You’ll feel better.” 

“Thanks,” I say, going to take a sip and immediately burning my tongue. I _do_ feel better, though, as all that sugar kicks in. 

As soon as he sits down, the long-haired guy slides a hand over the surface of the table and interlocks their fingers, like it’s the easiest fucking thing in the world. He _is_ wearing a wedding ring. I’m staring again. 

“Are you a tourist or just a bigot?” tattooed guy asks, like he’s enquiring about the weather. “I only ask because if you’re from a country that’s not used to men holding hands I might feel a bit bad giving you a thorough kicking, but if you’re home-grown then you probably deserve a swift one to the kneecap.” 

“Pads,” the taller guy says disapprovingly, squeezing his hand. “Are you really picking a fight with a teenager in the John Lewis cafe?” 

“Hmm,” the other guy - _Pads_ \- says, “I suppose it’s not really in the spirit of John Lewis. Could take him out the _back_ of John Lewis though, by those big bins. It’s in the spirit of a big bin.” 

“M’not a bigot,” I croak. They both look at me. I know I’ve got whipped cream all over my chin. “Just - just being stupid.” 

“Oh, well,” Moony says, “ _Stupid_ I can handle. _Stupid_ is par for the course.” 

“I know I’m being insulted,” says Pads, poking him, “but I’m not sure it’s specific enough for me to raise a grievance.” 

“Grievance noted, regardless,” says Moony. “We can revisit it later, when we’ve sorted out _this_ idiot.” 

I hope by ‘sorted out’ he means ‘ _given more hot chocolate and sent on my merry way’,_ not the bins-and-kicking thing. 

“Explain,” says Pads, and I brave making eye contact with him. You can tell he used to be _really_ beautiful. He’s still pretty fit now, if a bit careworn and tired. 

“You look like my ex-boyfriend,” I say in a rush, and then I close my eyes with the sheer mortification of it. I can _feel_ myself going bright red.

I can also hear someone snorting with laughter, which isn’t helping with the humiliation. 

“Oh _Christ,_ I’m never going to hear the end of this.” I crack open one eye and see Moony with his head in his hands. Pads is still cackling delightedly. 

“So what you’re saying is,” he says, leaning back in his chair and grinning at me, “Upon entering the lift you were so _struck_ by me - so _taken_ with me - that you stopped breathing and fell over?” 

“Er,” I say, still red but glad they’re not talking about hitting me any more, “Not like - I dunno, it just felt like - looking into a mirror. But not a mirror, obviously, because I don’t really look like _him_ ,” I gesture at Moony, who cocks his head to one side to study me, “It was like - er - like a mirror that shows you the future. Or something. But a bit wrong.” 

I know I sound completely mental, but this seems to make perfect sense to both of them, because Moony shrugs. 

“I suppose you look a _bit_ like me, when I was a lot younger,” he says, and Pads slams his hand down on the table so suddenly that I startle and nearly knock a marshmallow halfway across the room. 

“No, Moony, I’m not having that. You were _much_ taller, and _much_ prettier - sorry, no offence meant - he’s all sunshine and brawn and curls and you were all - well, moonlight and hipbones … and …”  
  
“Mullet,” says Moony, wrinkling up his nose at his husband, who laughs.

“Don’t remind me about those fucking mullets,” he says darkly. “Sometimes I still dream about them. They’re not good dreams.” 

“Drink your hot chocolate,” says Moony, and I take a sip. It’s a drinkable temperature now, and I end up draining half the cup in one gulp. 

“I’m interested in this _ex-boyfriend_ though,” says Pads, and Moony rolls his eyes. “Do you have pictures?” 

I really don’t want to pull up the photos of Baz that I have on my phone - they’re not hard to find, I only sit and stare at them every night under the covers until I feel like my lungs are going to implode - but they did buy me a hot chocolate, and I’m still slightly scared of them, so I take out my mobile and swipe through to find one. 

Penny took this. It’s me and Baz at Halloween. I’ve got vampire fangs in and I’m wearing one of Baz’s shirts with my hair slicked back. Baz has little red devil wings on, and a tail, and Agatha had curled his hair for him so it’s swept back off his face like he’s some sort of vintage Hollywood starlet. We thought it was hilarious, at the time.

“Looks nothing like me,” Pads scoffs, squinting at the picture and then moving the phone a bit further away like he’s struggling to focus on it. 

“Wear your _fucking_ reading glasses,” says Moony in this long-suffering voice, and Pads shoots him a glare. 

“I don’t need them,” he says, but when he turns back to the phone he’s squinting again. 

“He thinks it’s not _punk_ to wear glasses,” says Moony. “He thinks it’s more punk to just stumble through life with no fucking idea what you’re looking at half the time.” 

“To be fair,” I say, “that sounds right.” 

Pads laughs. “See? The youth agree with me. _Fuck_ glasses. _Fuck_ the opticians.” 

“Is that a Pistols song?” says Moony, but he’s smiling. He takes my phone from his husband and frowns down at it. “Hmm. I don’t know if I see it.” 

“Swipe left,” I say, pretending I’m not embarrassed about the fact that I know exactly what order these photos are in. He does - and then he bursts out laughing. 

“Yeah. Yeah, okay, _now_ I get it.” 

It’s a picture of Baz in his school uniform. I took it just to annoy him - he hadn’t tied his tie yet, or done up his top shirt buttons, and he’s half-glaring, half-smirking into the camera with one eyebrow raised. It’s somehow a dressing-down and a challenge at the same time.

“Is that really what I looked like?” Pads says, leaning over and narrowing his eyes. 

“Dark hair, cheekbones, expression on your face like you were more brilliant and beautiful than all you deigned to lay eyes on,” says Moony. “That was you, to a tee.” 

“He looks like a fucking vampire,” says Pads, which is so astute that I clam up for a second before realising that he doesn’t actually _mean_ it. I don’t think. Very hard to tell, with these two. “Anyway, I _was_ more brilliant and beautiful than most. What did they vote me in the yearbook? Most likely to model.” 

“In the yearbook,” Moony says, leaning conspiratorially towards me, “they voted him ‘most likely to die in a freak boating accident’.” 

“Fuckers,” says Pads dismissively. “There was something wrong with that boat, anyway. And I was only a first year! Fresh off the train! They should have fail-safes in place, to stop them whizzing off all over the lake.” 

“Right,” I say. I’ve finished my hot chocolate now and I desperately want to leg it for the door, Penny’s Christmas present be damned. I reach across the table and take my phone back. “Thanks so much, for the - for the drink.” 

“Are you alright?” says Moony, frowning. “You’re not going to get up and collapse again, are you?” 

“No,” I say. “It was just the - the shock, I think. Of seeing you.” 

“Because you’re still madly in love with your ex-boyfriend,” Pads says, nodding sagely, and Moony kicks him under the table. “Fucking _ow_ , Remus, you _dickhead._ ” 

“That’s not the sort of thing you say to people you’ve just met,” says Moony. “Or, well, it _is_ , but it really shouldn’t be.” He looks at me very kindly, which just makes me want to run away even more. “Are you okay? Really? Do you have - do you have friends you can talk to about this?” 

“Yeah,” I mumble uncomfortably. “Yeah, I’m fine.” 

“You should talk to _him_ ,” says Pads, and Moony sighs. “Your ex, I mean. You should call him. If you’re swooning in lifts at the mere sight of his elderly lookalike, there’s obviously some deep, unresolved shit going on there.” 

“Yeah,” I say again. “Something like that.” 

“See?” says Pads brightly, turning to Moony with a very smug look on his face. “I know what I’m talking about. Fixing broken hearts. Reuniting estranged lovers.” 

“I wish we were estranged,” Moony says, but fondly. He’s got this sappy look in his eyes like he’s a teenager on a first date, but they’ve clearly been together for bloody ages. They move like they’re one person, reacting to each other instinctively like their bodies are talking to each other in some secret code; Pads is reaching to put an arm around him and he’s already leaning in, coming to meet him. 

It hurts my heart, a bit, to look at them. 

“Thank you,” I say, getting up. “Sorry. And thanks.” 

“Good luck, mate,” Pads says, giving me a thumbs up. “I really do think you should ring him. Christmas, and all that.” 

“Yeah,” I say. “I might.” 

“Keep your chin up,” Moony says, and I smile quickly at him before turning to go. I hear Pads laughing at him as I walk away. I can still hear them as I approach the escalator. 

“ _Keep your chin up_ ,” he says mockingly. “Fucking hell, you already acted like you were sixty when you were sixteen, so what does that make you now?” 

“God-like,” says Moony. “Mythic. Merlin, we weren’t like that when we were at school, were we? All that angst and anguish?” 

“You have a terrible memory,” says Pads. “We were Romeo and Juliet, with a bit less blood.” 

“Just a bit,” says Moony. Now that I’m standing on the escalator I’m the right way round to see them properly again. Pads has got his head on Moony’s shoulder. Moony’s got an absent-minded hand in Pads’s hair; as I watch, he leans over and kisses him gently on the forehead. 

I haven’t let myself feel anything like hope for a long time. Too dangerous. But looking at the two of them gives me something to feel hopeful _about_ , I guess. Because they seem tired, and done-in, and a bit haunted - like they’ve really _seen_ some shit - but that isn’t what jumps out at you. Not really. 

Most of all, they just look happy. 

  
  



End file.
